Conquering the Darkness

Looking down at the ground covered with brittle, dry leaves colored in deep hues of scarlet and gold, Harry made his way languidly back toward the main grounds.

The dew still rested on the blades of grass in these early morning hours, the droplets of water reflecting the clear sky above, randomly flecked with gray-bottomed clouds.

It was November, and it still had yet to snow.

Ever since last Friday, a strange feeling had befallen him; one that only solitude and long walks could temporarily cure.

Though all had insisted he was entirely innocent as far as the "situation" (as it was now being called) was concerned, he remained unconvinced. Harry saw everyone's silent stares in the hall, felt their eyes upon his back. The students, and even some teachers, thought he could not see without his glasses, but even with them off, he could sense their every thought.

His steps quickened and he did not glance about to the sun-washed walls of the Astronomy Tower, or the new crops of Mandrake's that were leafing out among the carrots. The Gryffindor knew he had to return quickly, for soon Ron and Hermione would awake and begin to worry. The presence he felt most acutely through this interminable waiting was that of Ron and Hermione: their good intentions that somehow, through the process, helped.

Although, their worry became mangled with his own.

The scents of oatmeal and honey wafted across the grass on a gentle breeze and, temporarily forgetting his friends' concern, he directed his attention toward the Great Hall, his only thoughts residing on buttered toast and a cup of steaming cocoa.

The Great Hall was mostly unpopulated except for a few seventh years--usually Ravenclaw--that woke up at the break of dawn each day to study for N.E.W.T.S.

Shrugging off their inquisitive glances, he reached for a hot piece of toast and generously smeared a glop of marmalade on top. He felt much better by the time he reached his fifth piece and second cup of cocoa--

"Harry! We were wondering where you were," a shrill scream interrupted his thoughts.

Green eyes glanced up. With an inward sigh, Harry met the feminine gaze of one of his closest friends and thought of a plausible cover-up story for himself. "Hey, Hermione. Sorry, I woke up early and got hungry. I tried waking Ron, but you know him," Harry lied smoothly, deciding to cram the remaining piece of toast into his mouth.

Maybe she would take the hint and leave him in peace.

Hermione, deciding this was an acceptable answer for now, settled herself down comfortably on the bench, scooped herself a bowl of porridge, and began to eat it primly while she scanned the Transfigurations book.

There was a test today that he hadn't studied for, Harry realized.

Yet, this past week had been one of the most abnormal of his life: he had actually completed all assignments early and on time. He had even approached Quidditch with a mechanical eye.

"Harry!" Ron exclaimed as he plopped down onto the bench after clapping a hand on his dark-haired friends back. He immediately reached for a ham steak and some freshly made applesauce.

"Hello, Ron," Harry greeted quietly, idly wondering if anything had been heard of Mal--er, if he should study for his Transfigurations test.

Ron, who hardly noticed Harry's quiet nature nudged Hermione and whispered in her ear, though rather loudly, defeating the purpose entirely. "Hermione, did Harry tell you where he was?"

The blood came rushing to the back of his neck. Harry looked down at his empty plate and tried to act innocent and casual, thinking of answers he could possibly use as an explanation; he found none immediately available, let alone believable. After all, Ron and Hermione knew him the best and would see through any thin veil he put up in defense.

He couldn't let them know he was concerned, even if it was Malfoy of all people.

"I...am going to go check on the pitch. There were heavy winds last night, and I want to make sure nothing got blown over," Harry muttered apprehensively as he swung his heavy winter cloak back over his shoulders. A light sheen of moisture had appeared on his brow.

Hermione shot a glare toward Ron, and then looked at Harry sympathetically. "Harry, what's going on? You've been really quiet ever since that... situation." She asked, hoping Harry would talk to them and not just run away.

"Nothing's wrong, Hermione," he told her. He sighed slightly as he saw his friends' bushy eyebrows knit together.

"Don't worry, I'm fine. I just couldn't sleep." He flashed them a grin, hoping that it would cease their questions, although, realistically, he knew that it would only delay them.

Feeling that he hadn't quite convinced him, he continued on, "I stayed up re-reading Quidditch Through the Ages."

Ron grinned at him, accepting this answer. He elbowed Hermione in the side, "See, I told you he's okay. It's not like he's out walking around outside by himself or anything."

Hermione, still frowning, nodded slightly. "Okay, Harry... If you say so." The girl didn't say anything about Harry's stories. They seemed to match up okay, but still... She didn't think he was telling them the truth.

Harry nodded. "I do," he said, sounding more confident than he seemed. The flush on the back of his neck was receding, but he gulped inwardly at himself. Too bad that he had just been tramping about the lake for the past two hours trying to sort everything out. Even after returning to the grounds, he had not felt guilty at his absence; in truth, the cold had made him return to the comfort of the warm Great Hall, not his friends.

Harry bid them farewell and slipped indiscreetly out of the hall, now beginning to fill up with students, still bleary and crust eyed.

He wanted to be alone, but he didn't. He sighed at his indecisiveness. He'd been feeling like that lately. Actually, only this past week... It wasn't as though being around Ron, Hermione, and the other Gryffindor's wasn't fun or anything, but somehow he found himself longing for something different...

He exhaled noisily as he headed up the stairs, knowing where he had to go. He didn't really want to, but he didn't think he'd be able to stay sane if he didn't. He knew it wasn't his fault, but he just couldn't ignore the nagging feeling he had in the back of his mind that told him that he did have something more to do with it than he knew.

That image haunted his dreams. The image of Draco, his face burned, marred, and perhaps scarred beyond repaired. Could scars be healed so that it looked as though they had never existed? Did Madame Pomfrey have such a power?

Malfoy had taken the place of Voldemort with a less terrifying feel. Although the same quickness of breath and rapid beating of the heart often accompanied these dreams. Often, during the nights, Harry imagined Malfoy as dead and himself being locked up in Azkaban with...the Dementors.

Catching his breath as he made his way up the stairs, which seemed to have become quite taxing on his system, he looked out at a window that had a view of the pitch where he was supposed to be. Billowing clouds were forming in the west and Harry wondered if a storm was coming soon...

Groaning, Harry looked at the door that loomed before him. The daunting portal seemed to beckon him, almost as if this was where he was meant to be for sometime.

He silently drew up to the door and raised his hand to open it. The flush had returned to him, although this time to his cheeks. Harry could not believe he was here, worried, to see the third most hated being of his entire life. There was Voldemort, of course; the Dementors; and then...and then...came him. Then, came Malfoy. The arrogant, prissy little daddy's boy got on his nerves more than anything.

His hand fell down onto the doorknob, and yet in the silence of the cold halls, it sounded to his like an avalanche to his ears. In this quiet, all reverberations seemed magnified, the drip from some faucet, the whisper of the crackled leaves upon the lawn, his heartbeat pounding against his ribcage, the call of gulls over the lake--but there was no sound of footsteps, no rustle within the room...

The hall was deserted, but for some odd reason Harry felt guilty and glanced up and down before pulling down on the handle and heaving the heavy oak door and throwing his weight against it. It swung open smoothly and noiselessly, nearly sending Harry tumbling down onto the hard marble floor.

Why do I feel so weak?

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or trekking out and about the lake at ungodly hours of the morning, or maybe it was the change in the weather...

All were reasonable ideas, but he knew the true reason behind it all...

Shaking his head and deciding that now was not the time to dwell on any uncertain feelings as to the level of hatred he felt towards Malfoy, he dimly called out, "Madame Pomfrey? Are you in here?"

There was no response.

Perhaps, Harry pondered, she is looking after her patients...

His heart leapt at this idea. Maybe, if she was looking after a patient, then he could just check up on him and leave. It was not as though he wanted to talk to him--Harry could just imagine what the damn ferret would say.

"You should be thrown in Azkaban for this, Potter."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"You tried to kill me, you bastard; don't you think that qualifies for being locked inside a dark dirty room with your worst fear?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, it will be most amusing to check up on you in a few years, and all that will remain will be pathetic excuse of what once was there..."

He shook his head, dispelling the images and decided that he wasn't going to let the damnable Prince of Darkness keep him from sleeping any longer. He took -what he hoped--was calming breath and took a step forward, toward the bed at the far end of the ward.

Buttermilk colored light was shining through the open windows, white colored curtains that were pulled to the side allowed large chunks to appear on the black marble floor. The stainless steel bed frames were all neatly arranged, with white pillows, sheets, and blankets. It was an almost pleasant scene and Harry's spirit rose slightly--even though the wing was so very sanitary, there was something about it that reminded him of the Muggle world that, despite his terrible relatives, still held a special place in his heart.

In the Muggle world, it was possible to disappear into the crowd. He was just a regular teenage boy with a birthmark on his head; not the savior of the Wizarding World with a famous cut planted on his brow.

His deep green eyes made a wide sweep about the room and, against his will, a small smile graced his lips as he saw a figure located on the farthermost bed. The frame of the person nearly disappeared into the light, for it was so pale and white that it almost melted into the curtains.

Harry slowly walked across the room, wondering whether the soles of his shoes were making much noise. He almost had a desire to sneak up behind him and scream in his ears. Yet, the thought was too cruel--if he did such a thing, he would be lowering himself to the damn Slytherin's level, something he didn't particularly feel like doing at this moment in time.

The purpose of this mission was just to make sure that Malfoy was not some disfigured troll because of that damn experiment--there was no other reason for this.

As he neared the bed, Malfoy's figure became more and more detailed, but it was hardly clear. A particularly bright sunbeam fell directly before the bed, nearly obstructing all view except for the silhouette.

"Mr. Potter!"

Spinning about in surprise, Harry fumbled terribly, "Madame Pomfrey! I--, erm, I didn't see you there!"

The elderly woman put her delicate hands onto her waist and rested them against her white apron. Her faded blue eyes were stern and hash. The woman, despite her age, had not lost her edge, and she angered easily, "That is because," she paused and her eyes fell onto the figure behind the ray of sunlight, "I was not here."

Looking down at his polished black shoes, Harry admitted, "Well...I didn't hear you, so I thought I would..."

There was a flutter of white and pink and the woman brushed by him in her usual brisk manner. She was now before her patient, but she seemed no less resolute. "You would just what, Mr. Potter?" Her dull sapphire eyes moved from her patient to the raven-haired boy and back to her patient.

"I... uhh," he stuttered, finding the marble floor very interesting at the moment. "Nothing," he muttered beneath his breath, shuffling his feet lightly.

Madame Pomfrey hesitated a moment then nodded. "Then you shouldn't be here, Mr. Potter. I would advise you to hurry to class. They will start shortly."

Harry nodded and turned to leave, then stopped at the sound of the old nurses' voice. "He's recovering nicely."

He did not know what to say. Should he smile? Was he glad the git was actually healing? Should he scoff as though he didn't care? (Which realistically, he shouldn't at all, he thought darkly) Or...should he just walk away?

He had paused for too long, and Madame Pomfrey was still looking after him, a pitiful look etched upon her features. Having not noticed it before, Harry realized there was a mournful expression in her eyes, and he questioned hurriedly, "What is it?"

There was a deep, weighty sigh, and she withdrew her spectacles from a delicate crystal-laced chain about her neck that caught the light and sent a few random sparkles about the room.

"You see...Mr. Malfoy's sight has been lost by the potion...and Professor Snape, Professor Sprout, the teachers and I are still trying to figure how to combat whatever got into his bloodstream..." Her voice was heavy. Harry was not used to this: a serious Pomfrey. It all seemed so strange, so foreign. She could mend bones in minutes, cure a cold with a vile of a potion; but now she seemed almost defeated

"You mean he's blind?" Harry inquired, unaware that he was so unnerved.

Madame Pomfrey nodded solemnly, her gaze resting on Malfoy's pale, prone body.

Harry hesitated before nodding slightly. "Thanks," he murmured again before leaving the Hospital Wing. Harry stopped and leaned against the side of the door. He was blind... And it could be his fault... It was his fault... He owed Draco... Harry felt sick and decided he didn't want to go to class today.

Outside, the wind began to pick up from the west, a cold harsh wind that cut through one's clothing and exposed all.

The clouds were swept along, clinging law to the ground, their water-colored bottoms deep and grey.

There was the scent of rain on the wing...